


The mess you've made

by SansSoucis



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Character Death (Past), Drinking, Francis really doesn't, Guilt, Human AU, Love/Hate Relationship, Ludwig tries to keep it together, M/M, Mourning, Slight Violence, Slightly fucked up, Warning: sex scene in chapter two, complicated feelings, there's a sex scene, unhealthy relationship dynamics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-03
Updated: 2017-11-03
Packaged: 2019-01-21 22:31:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12467384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SansSoucis/pseuds/SansSoucis
Summary: Francis takes all of his grief for the person he both loved and hated the most out on the only one he has left. Ludwig tears himself apart for desiring what his brother once had. Two broken puzzle pieces, the last reminders of his existance.The brother and the lover, they keep Gilbert's memory alive, whether they want it or not.





	1. Eins

**Author's Note:**

> This could be a sequel to my unfinished story Sehnsucht, but I haven't decided if this will be canon yet. if you want to read what happened to Gilbert you can read the prologue of Sehnsucht, perhaps follow it as I am still in the process of writing it. If you're not interested you can still read this fic en enjoy the slightly fucked-up Germany/France/dead Gilbert dynamics because apart from Gilbert's death I will not be mentioning any specific events from the story.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Francis is bare-footed, sprawled across the wooden garden chair, white bathrobe covered in fresh dark stains that soak deeply into the fluffy fabric, like blood.

He watches the glass fall from his outstretched hand, crashing onto the terrace floor into a thousand shambles. Ludwig’s on his knees already, picking up the pieces, ignoring the gentle hand that threads through his hair, demanding him to _stop, you’ll hurt yourself_. He looks up.

Francis is bare-footed, sprawled across the wooden garden chair, white bathrobe covered in fresh dark stains that soak deeply into the fluffy fabric, like blood. He avoids Ludwig’s gaze, staring at  Rio’s coastline, the pearly beaches, the yellow lights sprawled all along the darkened landscape, instead.  Those eyes, unseeing, blank _, broken_. Ludwig swallows heavily.

After he’s tossed the shards into the bin inside, trying to get his large body to thread quietly in order to not wake Matthew, child vastly asleep on the couch while the television illuminates his small face with a spooky blue glow, he gets the paper towels out. Puts one on the floor, watching the red soak into it, spreading all the way to the corners.

Another one, because the wine simply soaks through the first, pooling on top of it, pin, clearish like moisture on a wound. The tissue is ragged, soaked. Another one on top. One more. Waiting until they stay white as plaster, _plaster for the wounds_.

Francis makes an impatient noise, pale leg darting out towards the ground as he moves to rise. Ludwig catches it, toe an inch from the cold tiles, closing his hand tightly around the ankle, sliding his other palm around the icy sole in an attempt to soothe. Coarse leg hair pricks against his fingers.

“No. Stay. There might still be glass lying around.”

Blue eyes darken, narrow to slits. Francis’ lips curl into a grim sneer, preparing to tear Ludwig to bits.  

 _‘Why would you care?’_ He would spit, _‘Quit touching me.’_

Angry eyes, angry mouth, _anger_ , the one emotion Francis dared to openly display to him. He saved happiness for Matthew, and sorrow for himself. But who was Ludwig to complain, really? The only emotion he saw on his face as he looked in the mirror was the most deadly of all.

Anger kept a man alive, kept a man _sane_ , but _indifference_ was like a choking hand around your neck, leaving you to watch as your vision began to blur and life slowly lost all of it’s colours.

Three months after Gilbert’s hot blood seeped into the cracks of Berlin’s pavements and now Ludwig saw the world fade to black and white, save for the red stains on his hands.

However, Francis doesn’t lash out, instead allows Ludwig to push his foot back onto the seat of the chair, with a face all stony glares and quivering mouth corners. Long toes curl around the wooden edge, and the bathrobe slips open even more, only a loosely tied ribbon halting Francis from revealing his naked body to all of Rio de Janeiro.

In better times, Ludwig would’ve cared, would’ve felt his mouth staring to water at the sight of white thighs and a rosy nipple hardening in the midnight air. Now he’s only annoyed at the way Francis makes no attempt to cover himself any better, not even trying to preserve the last bit of dignity he has left.

Francis’ ankle is covered in bruise-coloured fingerprints, marking the spots Ludwig’s stained hands have touched him. Ludwig remembers the bruises he leaves on Francis’ hips those rare times that Francis breaks and surrenders into him, and he feels sick.

 _“Are you going to clean up or not?_ ” Voice haughty, snappy, contrasting sharply with the defeated picture before him.

“I’m _trying._ ” Ludwig’s French, when snarled in annoyance, sounds even more atrocious, but Francis has refused to speak any other language ever since they landed here. Ludwig is secretly grateful for that, however, for speaking German only conjured up images of snarky mouths and stupid jokes and devil eyes and cruel laughs and _Gilbert_ in general.

Ludwig closes his eyes, crushing the tissues in his hand, embracing the darkness for a moment, moving through his rotten mind trying to chase his brother’s memory away.

He only opens them at a splattering sound and the grumbled curse of ‘ _putain_!’.  Francis had reached for the bottle, put it to his lips, and now tender little drops fall from the armrest onto Ludwig’s clean plaster while Francis furiously wipes at the stains around his lips.

“What are you doing!? _Du Idiot_!”  Bruises and blood dripping all over Francis’ chin, down to his chest, robe, thighs, to hairy calves and elegant arches-“ _Verdammt_!”

His knees ache faintly from how long he had been sitting on the floor, but just like the German curses slipping from his lips, he pays it no mind, tearing off another paper towel.

He isn’t sure if Francis starts trembling because of his angry snarls and the way he’s now towering over him, or because the cursing reminds him of another German, another brother, another _lover_.

 _Stop it!_ His voice drunkenly screams, echoing all through the Brazilian night _, let me go, you German oaf! Leave me! LEAVE ME!_

Even when a fist slams into his chest with a force Ludwig hadn’t thought this broken body capable of, he doesn’t leave. He keeps his fingers firmly curled around Francis’ chin, scrubbing at his lips and jaw, trying to make the stains disappear.

Francis snarls, clawing at his hands, tugging at his hair. _“Quit it! I SAID QUIT IT!”_

His usually pale lips flush an angry red, pieces of paper clinging to the soft wet skin of his bottom lip and Ludwig slows down, using his fingers to gently wipe it clean. A sharp blow on his right ear leaves him gasping with a piercing ring in his ears. His knees buckle, the edge of the seat slamming painfully into his stomach.

He has slapped Francis hard across the face before he even realises it.  

Francis stares at him in shock, then bawls, ripping the soaked tissue from Ludwig’s hand before throwing it in his face. Hot tears dribble over his cheeks as he spits at him. _“You can’t fix me, Ludwig! God, you can’t even fix yourself!”_


	2. Zwei

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ludwig wants to kiss him, chase his brothers memory across those lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter probably should be rated M. Idk I'm not good with rating things.

Francis’ hips stutter, his back arches, _beautifully,_ Ludwig thinks unwittingly. He clutches at the sheets around him, pulling at them harshly, apparently desperate to hold on to anything but Ludwig himself.

Ludwig grimaces at the depressing thought, however, he keeps his hands firmly pressed against the wooden headboard of the bed, keeping his thrusts at a steady pace. 

 _Faster,_ Francis pants between his stifled groans, _harder_ , his eyes moving busily behind his shut eyelids. Ludwig suspects, knows even, that he’s imagining someone else, again anyone but Ludwig. That’s the easy part, it’s gets more difficult if he asks the second question. _Who?_

Francis will not ever let him know, aside from snarled demands he never says a thing when they’re like this, trying to make the least sounds possible, as if he’s ashamed.

 _It’s almost funny_ , Ludwig thinks sourly. He has seen Francis crying, drunk, screaming, fighting, bleeding, naked, lying in his own puke, yet letting Ludwig know he’s actually experiencing pleasure from his cock is apparently the most shameful thing in the world. At least it’s comforting that Francis feels as guilty as Ludwig does about… _whatever this is_. Those stifled moans are the best Ludwig probably is ever going to get from him, so he’ll take it.

His hips move skilfully against Ludwig’s own, his wavy hair bouncing around his head with each thrust Ludwig gifts him. _Harder._

Ludwig slams into him so roughly he actually pushes Francis upwards, causing the back of his blonde head to bump into the headboard. Francis makes a pained noise, his eyes flutter open to give Ludwig an annoyed glance.

“ _Verdammt_ , sorry.” Ludwig mutters, an awkward flush creeping over his cheeks. ‘ _If you let me hold you down that wouldn’t have happened_ ’ he wants to snarl at him, but in the bedroom, Ludwig’s stone-cold façade usually crumbles and he’s left with nothing but the awkward adolescent he truly is inside, so he just keeps quiet, an obedient dog waiting for his cruel master’s orders

Francis’ voice is high pitched, whiny, _go on!_ ,  the only true reward Ludwig will ever get. His chest heaves with every quick breath he takes. He’s close, eyes clouded with arousal, lips red from biting.

Ludwig wants to kiss him, chase his brother’s memory across those lips, taste what Gilbert had before him. He wants them, the last two people keeping Gilbert’s memory alive, to unite, to bond until they can only think his thoughts, until they breathe his breaths, until they love each other simply because they loved him. He wants to love Gilbert’s love.

The creaking sounds the bed makes at their rough movements are the perfect noises to illustrate his crumbling sanity.

Francis comes with a broken moan and a shout of “ _Gil!_ ”, nearly arching off the bed, soiling the sheets. Ludwig collapses beside him in defeat, trembling. His cock is still flushed, hard, but he feels too disgusted with himself _and_ Francis to do anything about it.

Francis is quick however, long fingers curling around the shaft, finishing him off with practiced strokes that show he’s done this at least a million times before. Ludwig groans loudly, helplessly thrusting into Francis’ hand until he comes, spilling all over himself and the bed and Francis.

As Ludwig comes down from orgasm, the first thing his eyes land on is the way Francis uses the sheets to wipe his hands. “Stop that.” He says immediately. “That’s dirty.”

 _Dirty_ was one of the first words that came to mind while Ludwig met Francis for the first time. He’d been eighteen back then, and he’d gone to visit his brother, who was studying History at the time. After he’d rang the doorbell, some unknown,dripping wet, blonde man had opened the door, wearing nothing except a towel which threatened to fell of off his hips _. “Oh, you’re Ludwig? Gilbert’s passed out on the bed, I guess he hasn’t had much experience with people as good as I am.”_ The man had licked his lips, tucking a golden curl behind his ear. “ _You should try me for yourself sometime.”_ _Dirty_ , Ludwig had thought, _filthy._

Francis cocks an eyebrow at Ludwig’s demand, but ignores it, as usual. His eyes never leave Ludwig’s as he dips his finger into a stripe of come on his thigh and licks it clean. _“Like this, then?”_

 _Filthy._ And yet Ludwig’s here, fucking him, wanting to kiss him. _Gilbert’s whore._ Ludwig’s dick jumps.

“Don’t be a slut.” He snarls, face flushing, pulling the sheets up to cover himself.

Francis moves towards him, spits in his face. He grimaces as it dribbles down his cheek. _Dirty._

 “You hideous Kraut!” Francis growls. “I hate you.”

He is an incubus, equally devilish and beautiful. Ludwig watches him go, still naked, angry _, gorgeous_ , leaving Ludwig alone amidst a mess of soiled sheets.

As Ludwig steps into the shower a few moments later, he wonders who out the two of them Gilbert would find the most disgusting.


End file.
